


Secret Weapon

by Rianne



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enjolras Has Tattoos, First Dates, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 18:25:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2160564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rianne/pseuds/Rianne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This is what you’re wearing," Courfeyrac says.</p><p>“But that’s far too casual,” Enjolras protests.</p><p>Courfeyrac sits down on the edge of his bed and sighs dramatically. “Enjolras. Enjolras. It’s a coffee date, which is the most casual dating situation imaginable. Few items of clothing are too casual for that. Besides, this outfit lets you use your secret weapon.”</p><p>“My secret weapon?” Enjolras lifts one eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be some kind of innuendo?”</p><p>“Your tattoos,” Courfeyrac says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secret Weapon

**Author's Note:**

> Again based off a Tumblr headcanon: http://my-miserables-obsession.tumblr.com/post/79640435649/the-strangest-sea-actually-though-enjolras#notes (I know it's possible to put links in the notes but I don't know how.)
> 
> To my friend Jane. 
> 
> Written in like one hour, unbetaed.

Enjolras is shirtless and barefoot, wearing nothing but jeans and frantically trying to decide what he should wear on his date with Grantaire.

He’s put on and subsequently discarded about fifteen button-ups and three sweaters. It’s just a _coffee date_ , but that knowledge doesn’t seem to help. He’s incredibly nervous – worried they’ll argue as they so often do, worried Grantaire isn’t actually as into him as Combeferre and Courfeyrac have promised, worried he’ll somehow disappoint. Now he’s just standing in front of his mirror like a teenager, ready to tear his hair out because _he can’t decide what to wear_.

There’s a gentle cough from behind him, and he whirls around to find Courfeyrac in the door opening. His friend is smirking at him. He’s also holding clothes: red skinny jeans and a white t-shirt that looks two sizes too small.

“Fear not,” he says. “Courfeyrac is here to help you with all your first-date jitters.”

“I told you, don’t talk about yourself in the third person,” Enjolras says. “And how did you even… Why aren’t those jeans in my closet where they should be? And that’s not my t-shirt.”

“It is now,” Courfeyrac announces, tossing the clothes down on the bed. “This is what you’re wearing.”

“But that’s far too casual,” Enjolras protests.

Courfeyrac sits down on the edge of his bed and sighs dramatically. “Enjolras. _Enjolras_. It’s a coffee date, which is the most casual dating situation imaginable. Few items of clothing are too casual for that. Besides, this outfit lets you use your secret weapon.”

“My secret weapon?” Enjolras lifts one eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be some kind of innuendo?”

“Your tattoos,” Courfeyrac says, and Enjolras looks down at his arms.

He got the tattoos about eighteen months ago after quite a bit of deliberation. They stretch from his wrists to his shoulders, and he’s still inordinately pleased with them even after more than a year. Despite how much he loves them, he doesn’t put them on display. They’re private, in a sense, and he never was the type to show off a lot of skin. He’s more of a long-sleeved button-downs kind of person. As a result, nobody but Courfeyrac and Combeferre knows.

“How are my tattoos my secret weapon?” he asks, self-consciously rubbing his hands over his arms.

“Grantaire will love them,” Courfeyrac says simply.

“How do you know?” He hates the desperation in his voice, but there’s a lot riding on this date. He’s been pining after Grantaire for months now, after all.

“Grantaire has a thing for tattoos.” Courfeyrac pats the bed beside him, and Enjolras reluctantly sits down. He nervously taps his foot. Courfeyrac continues, “Seriously, he’s always pointing out people with tattoos he likes. Plus he has a tattoo himself.”

“Where?” Enjolras says immediately.

Courfeyrac snickers. “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know. Anyway, he’s going to faint when he sees this. Well, maybe not faint, but I will bet you twenty bucks that he will be speechless for at least a full minute after he spots these.”

“Okay,” Enjolras breathes. “Short sleeves it is.”

“And wear those jeans,” Courfeyrac says warningly. “The ones I picked. Not any other pair.”

“Why those?” Enjolras asks, though he’s already picking them up. In general, it’s unwise to defy Courfeyrac’s fashion advice.

“One: the colour matches your tattoos,” Courfeyrac says. Which is true enough, given that Enjolras’ tattoos are greyscale with added red. “Two: they show off your ass.”

Enjolras rakes a hand through his curls again. “Okay,” he says.

\--

He feels hideously exposed as he walks from the bus stop to Grantaire’s apartment to pick him up. Courfeyrac didn’t let him wear a jacket, because “it would defeat the whole purpose, Enj, work with me here”. As a result, people are glancing at his arms as he walks down the street, and it’s unnerving. He’s not ashamed of his tattoos, he _loves_ them, but he’s not used to being watched this way. As if the staring-induced self-consciousness wasn’t enough, he’s also still hideously nervous for the upcoming date itself. Plus the t-shirt Courfeyrac apparently bought for him is much tighter than he’s used to.

Finally, he’s standing in front of Grantaire’s apartment. It takes another minute before he’s calmed himself down enough to ring the doorbell. For a few seconds, nothing happens, and he’s almost hyperventilating by the time he hears footsteps and the door is pulled open.

Grantaire looks amazing in a blue shirt that contrasts wonderfully with his brown skin. He appears to have made some effort to comb his hair into submission, but it hasn’t been entirely successful. Enjolras briefly wonders if Grantaire is also nervous, and if he also takes it out on his hair.

He doesn’t get a lot of time to think about that, though. Grantaire takes one look at him and then his eyes zero in on Enjolras’ arms. His mouth drops open, and he grips the doorpost as if he needs to physically brace himself.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes, his eyes wide. He reaches out with his other hand but almost immediately pulls it back again, as if he doesn’t dare touch. “You, you…” He doesn’t say anything more, he just gapes at Enjolras’ arms, totally at a loss for words. Enjolras tries very hard not to blush, with no success whatsoever.

“How did… why…” Grantaire stammers, and the dark blush on his face makes Enjolras feel better about his own red cheeks. “When did you…” He shakes his head, still holding on to the doorframe for dear life.

“Courfeyrac said you’d react this way,” Enjolras mumbles, mostly for something to fill the silence. He rubs the back of his neck, which means moving his arm and displaying more of the tattoos.

“Can I?” Grantaire asks, still awestruck as he hesitantly reaches out.

Enjolras obediently holds out his right arm. Grantaire grabs his wrist and pulls him inside and to the windows, where the light is better than beneath the dim hallway lamps. Then he leans in close, so close that Enjolras could drop a kiss to his messy curls if he wanted to. He really wants to, but he refrains.

“What’s this, then?” Grantaire mutters, twisting Enjolras’ arm this way and that to look at the images. “Is that a protest?”

He nods, suddenly self-conscious again. His right arm is full of all sorts of protesters. There are messages scrawled on signs and between people.

“Only you, Apollo,” Grantaire says, having apparently regained some of his wits. “It _would_ be a protest. And does this say _Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité_?”

“Yes,” he mutters.

“You should’ve added _Cliché_ while you were at it.” Grantaire smirks up at him. Enjolras purses his lips, ready to defend himself, but Grantaire is already talking again. “Why is there a butterfly at this protest?”

“It’s a moth,” he says instantly. “Stands for Combeferre.” All of a sudden, he’s excited. With nobody knowing about his tattoos except Combeferre and Courfeyrac, he hasn’t had a chance to explain them to anyone. “There’s sun for Courf, a flower for Jehan, and a four-leaf clover for Bossuet, and a cat for Joly,” he continues, pointing them out as he speaks.

“What about—” Grantaire breaks off after two words, and Enjolras can just see the hand that isn’t still holding his wrist clench into a fist.

He remembers what Combeferre told him a few weeks ago – _he thinks you can’t stand him, Enjolras, you know how negative he gets –_ and twists his arm to reveal the paintbrush in the crease of his elbow. “This one’s for you,” he says quietly.

Grantaire looks up at him, his eyes wide and still blushing darkly. “Oh,” he mumbles. The silence stretches on as they stare at each other, until Grantaire clears his throat and looks down again. “What about your other arm?”

“It’s a dragon,” Enjolras says as he holds out his left arm. Grantaire lets go of his right wrist to take his left, fingers warm against Enjolras’ skin.

“Why?” Grantaire asks.

“It’s a _dragon_ ,” he repeats. “I don’t need a reason.”

Grantaire laughs, and the sound warms Enjolras’ heart. For a moment longer, he twists Enjolras’ arm this way and that. Then he gently lifts it and bends down to press a kiss to Enjolras’ wrist, right against the mouth of his black-and-red dragon. It sends tingles flowing through Enjolras’ body.

“Um. Sorry for getting distracted,” Grantaire says. “We should… go. Get that coffee.”

“Or,” Enjolras says recklessly, “we could stay in and you could show me _your_ tattoos.”

Grantaire grins at him. “Or that,” he agrees, and drags Enjolras to his couch.

 


End file.
